Minato jogged back, chest rising with slow control.
Their eyes met briefly at halfcourt.
Aizawa didn’t flinch.
Dirga brought the ball up.
The way he moved—the way the floor moved with him—was music in motion.
Aizawa drifted toward the short corner, drawing Minato off-balance just enough.
Across from him, Gaito didn’t lunge.
He waited. Calculated.
The Shepherd still watching the field like it was his to command.
Playmaker vs. Playmaker.
Dirga tapped his wristband. Once.
Barely more than a heartbeat.
Rikuya shifted—subtle angle.
Rei flared out—cutting wide like a thread pulled taut.
Pump-faked a handoff.
That single misstep was enough.
Dirga didn’t hesitate.
He drove hard inside.
The defense caved in.
Minato rotated. Tomoya closed the paint.
Dirga didn’t force the finish.
He let them collapse.
Aizawa was already in motion.
Slashing into the exact lane Dirga had created with the delay.
He caught it mid-air.
55 – 53. Horizon leads.
"They’re not even looking anymore!"
"Dirga and Aizawa—connected on instinct. They’re not running plays. They’re composing them."
Gaito wiped sweat from his jaw, eyes narrowing.
He brought the ball up faster this time.
No patience. No posture.
He passed to Haru, took it back instantly, and attacked Dirga straight up.
Dirga slid with him. Hips low. Eyes focused.
"Switch!" Taiga called—
But Dirga dipped under the screen—stayed with it.
He passed out to Haru—who faked.
Rei read it but held ground.
Bullet pass to Tomoya, cutting baseline.
Rikuya rotated early.
Because Dirga had seen it coming.
He’d lured them there.
Tomoya caught it—hesitated.
The Wolves staggered.
Let them breathe in the shift.
The tempo wasn’t theirs anymore.
[Maestro’s Pulse – Active Trigger: Maestro State – 60 seconds]
Like stage lights fading into perfect alignment.
Spacing pulsed tighter.
Trajectories snapped to rhythm.
Rikuya moved like he already knew what Dirga would do two passes ahead.
Taiga rolled half a second early—and it was exactly right.
Rei curled opposite—pulling Haru with him, dragging space open like unraveling thread.
But in the Wolves’ eyes, in their radar—
Cutting across the seam, from the elbow to the short corner.
Dirga didn’t even glance.
Aizawa caught it in stride.
Gaito slapped the ball, voice tight with urgency.
Minato sprinted ahead, waving off the pass.
Caught on the move, planted in the high post.
Rikuya dropped to wall him off.
Aizawa chased across the angle, cutting him off shoulder-first.
Aizawa held. Stayed on his feet.
Dirga didn’t hesitate.
Pushed forward like a fuse chasing the spark.
Midcourt in three strides.
Haru collided into his shoulder mid-run—
And bounced off like air.
Phantom Drive: Fully active.
His body flowed like steel wrapped in silk.
Exploding, decelerating, shifting momentum without ever breaking rhythm.
Minato rotated to cut him off.
He slipped past—two defenders juked clean.
The Untouchable: Triggered.
Everything locked in.
His feet moved like ink strokes.
His vision split seconds ahead.
His balance went ghost-clean.
But beneath the sound—
The sound of a team breathing in unison.
"This isn’t basketball—it’s choreography!"
"And Dirga’s flowing like he sees every heartbeat in advance!"
But Gaito wasn’t finished.
He came back with fury.
Drove straight into Dirga’s chest—shoulder down, eyes locked.
Dirga absorbed the contact. Slid. Cut off the first step.
Then kicked it to Haru at the wing.
Rei recovered, but the delay left a crack.
Aizawa stepped in from the help-side.
Minato’s voice rang out from behind the arc.
Gaito twisted mid-step—reverse pass.
Back to Minato at the top of the key.
And suddenly, it was back within one possession.
But Dirga didn’t flinch.
He could feel Flow State humming in his ribs.
Pushing. Beckoning. Whispering to unleash it.
But he shook his head.
Let’s finish this without burning it all.
He didn’t need to overpower them.
Not when he could out-think them.
[Tempo Sight: Godframe – Activated | 45 Seconds Remaining]
The world unfolded in pulses.
The court fractured into precision-coded pathways.
Defenders flared red. Teammates blazed in blue. Passing angles shimmered—transient veins of opportunity flickering in and out of existence.
Dirga’s eyes didn’t blink.
Gaito hedged too high—anticipating a screen that hadn’t even happened.
Riku lagged in the paint, late on help.
Minato? Already sliding wide—cheating early toward Aizawa’s zone.
Dirga paused mid-step.
Then—snap-pass behind his back.
Sliding silently into the weakside pocket.
Caught it like it was scripted.
"They’re not calling plays—they’re syncing minds!"
"This is Maestro’s basketball. Dirga isn’t leading. He’s composing!"